Beating the Odds
by pgrabia
Summary: Preparing for a BBQ proves to be perilous for a certain ex-oncologist and his supposed-to-be-dead best friend. House/Wilson slash. General spoilers for season 8 including the series finale. Part of the "Once Bitten" universe. Help/comfort.


**Title: ****Beating the Odds**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Sick!Wilson; House/Wilson slash

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson / House/Wilson slash.

**Word Count: **~1500

**Spoilers/Warnings: **All seasons of House M.D. up to and including season 8 episode 22 "Everybody Dies". Warning, one F-bomb; sexual innuendo.

**Rating: PG-13 (T)**

**A/N: **Written for **Camp Sick!Wilson 2012 "Roll of the Dice" challenge** at the Sick!Wilson community on Livejournal. **Prompt: #6—Rock. **Part of the "Once Bitten" universe; takes place between "Once Bitten" and "A Celebration (Epilogue)".

**Beating the Odds**

Lawnmower. Rock. Two objects Wilson would never have put together in the same sentence had it not been for the fact that one had caused the injury made by the other.

House and he had rented a small house during Wilson's treatment regimen. Their neighbors knew them as James and Thomas (House had decided to use his stepfather's name as his alias since technically, at least according to the world, Gregory House was dead, cremated, his ashes thrown into the sea according to the instructions in his last will and testament. Wilson had taken care of that before setting out, supposedly alone, on his bucket list trip. Nobody but the two of them knew the truth; that is, that those ashes belonged to the heroin addict who had overdosed and died in that burning warehouse and whose charred remains were identified as House's thanks to switched dental records.

Unlike life BC (Before Cancer), Wilson had no problem with people knowing that he was in love with House and that they were domestic partners. The treatment regimen was relatively pain and nausea free, so he had the energy and enthusiasm to throw BBQs and invite the people in their neighborhood in a quiet area of Scottsdale. House tolerated such parties because they were obviously good for Wilson, boosting his mood and making treatment less of a burden on him than it otherwise would have.

Next door to their house was a golf course (the entire community of which Wilson and House were a part was developed around the golf course on purpose). It was pretty much the only place in the area that actually kept and maintained grass. Most of the single-family dwellings, including theirs, had yards that were ecologically sustainable and grass-free (hence not requiring the same amount of water consumption to maintain) which was a sound idea when one lived in hot, arid Arizona.

A chain-link fence separated Wilson and House's property from said golf course, which had always been fine; it had allowed them the illusion of having a much larger, lush backyard to look at. The thing House hadn't liked about it were the lawn-tractors running early in the morning keeping the greens and fairways trimmed. Well, that and the in-ground sprinkler system that went off one day when House was taking a nap on their deck; the wind had blown the water spray from the sprinkler nearest the fence into their yard, giving House a cold and unexpected wake-up call.

Wilson was in the backyard one Saturday preparing for one of his BBQ dinner parties while House was inside watching his favorite soap opera, _Prescription Passion_. A frown was on House's face because the sound of the lawn-tractor next door was drowning out his show. A shout and then pained wailing brought House limping quickly out onto the deck to investigate. Upon seeing the former oncologist kneeling on the patio, clutching his face in his hands, House dropped his cane and made his way as quickly as he could down from to the deck and to his lover's side.

He knelt next to Wilson despite the pain it caused his damaged leg, and grabbed at Wilson's wrists. He tried to pull Wilson's hands away from his face so he could take a look.

"Wilson, what happened?" the former diagnostician demanded, worry occupying his countenance. "Let me see!"

"Oh God, House, my eye! It fucking hurts!" Wilson howled, refusing to allow House access. From between his fingers House could see blood drip to the ornamental tiles. That was enough to push House to be less gentle and more insistent. He pulled hard on Wilson's hands, managing to lower them. The younger man had his eyes squeezed shut, his face screwed up in agony. His right eye was producing a flood of tears that ran down his cheek. The right eye was bloodied and already swollen shut, turning a ghastly shade of purple-black. House' couldn't determine immediately if the blood was coming from under the swollen eyelids or somewhere on or around the eye.

His stomach tightened into a knot. Something had struck Wilson and could very well have devastated his eye, perhaps permanently. It was his weak eye, but nonetheless Wilson did manage some vision out of it and to go blind in that eye would be a serious impairment.

"We need to get the bleeding stopped and the area cleaned so I can tell the nature of the injury," House told him matter-of-factly, but there was an undercurrent of gentleness in his voice. He encouraged Wilson to get up to his feet and he stood slowly himself, grimacing with the protests of his leg. Wilson's left hand was covering his eye and House led him inside the house, using Wilson for balance and support without his cane.

"What happened?" House demanded as he led Wilson, blinded by swelling, blood and tears, to the bathroom and the toilet where he sat the younger man down on the lid. From the cabinet under the sink House pulled out a first aid kit and then filled the sink with warm water.

"I—I'm not sure," Wilson answered, hiccupping. "I was just standing there when the lawn-tractor next door drove past parallel to the fence. I heard a rattling sound like something hard against metal and then something hit my eye hard and fast. It was something small, no bigger than my thumb. I th—think it was a rock or stone that was in the grass and got picked up by the mower blade. It must have made it through one of the openings in the fence."

"Fluky rock," House muttered as he cleaned very gently around Wilson's eye and wiped the blood off his face with a warm, damp facecloth. "That thing would have been flying nearly as fast as a bullet. You're lucky it didn't get lodged in your skull."

Wilson frowned. "I'd hardly call myself lucky. How bad is it? Do I need to go to the hospital?"

House carefully investigated the wound, dabbing up fresh blood as it came forth from the wound. "I think you got off lu—uh, I mean, you only received a deep laceration along the orbital bone above your eye. It caused bruising which is the source of the swelling and you'll need about four or five stitches to close it but I don't see any damage to the orbit of the eyeball itself." He gently pried open Wilson's swollen eyelids and carefully inspected the eyeball underneath. It too had likely been bruised but there was no evidence of serious injury. "I can stitch the laceration here. Move your eyes around."

Wilson did as he was told. Muscle activity was normal if a bit limited due to the swelling. No punctures, lacerations or evidence of corneal damage. Due to the nature of the injury, retinal detachment was unlikely. House gently palpated the orbital bone along Wilson's eyebrow finding no evidence of fracture.

"I think your eye can be spared," House told him. "No glass eye or pirate's patch for you, which is too bad. I won't have an excuse to call you Captain One-Eye."

"Har-dee-har," Wilson mumbled grumpily. "I must look terrible."

"Nah," House told him, digging around in the drawers for the suture kit and antiseptic. "Mrs. Gunderson from three doors down? Her varicose veins look terrible. You look grotesque."

"Thanks," Wilson moped bitterly. "Your bedside manner still sucks."

"I'll bet you that you couldn't get hurt like that again if you tried," House told him with a chuckle as he brought the supplies over to Wilson and sat on the edge of the bathtub in front of him. "I think I'm going to take your wallet and buy a ticket for the state lotto in your name. Oh, and next time there's a lightening storm I'm going to keep my distance from you. No offence."

"I love you, too."

"Cheer up," House said as he numbed the area on Wilson's eyelid just under the eyebrow with a lidocaine-soaked swab. "My bedside manner might suck, but my in-bed behavior sucks much, much _better_. When I'm done suturing this, I'm going to demonstrate exactly what I mean."

A small smile graced Wilson's lips right before the needle with the dissolvable suture thread pierced his skin, causing him to wince again.

Wilson sighed. "Now that's the kind of medicine I can really use."

_**~fin~**_


End file.
